


Tell Me I'm Dreaming

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When someone becomes such a large part of who you are, it can be difficult to accept it when they're gone. For John, Sherlock's memory follows him everywhere he goes. The ghosts of his past end up in everything he does. Stoical as ever, he marches on through it all, drifting through his life without really living... But how long will it take until something finally gives?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me I'm Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 7!  
> Prompt: Create a story using one of the previous prompts for Let’s Write.  
> I used the challenge 3 prompt: Write a story inspired by a piece of music.  
> Inspired by the song "I Still Miss You" by Keith Anderson.

Waking up was the easy part.  
  
Wakefulness washed over him softly, the sun sneaking in from behind the curtains of his window warming his skin; he was at peace. John let out a breath of contentment and adjusted himself under the covers. For a few precious minutes, he knew only the basics. He knew he was bordering on the line between sleep and wakefulness, and he knew he was utterly comfortable in his bed. The only thought drifting through his mind was the internal argument of whether to get up or go back to sleep.  
  
On this particular day, the sudden blaring of his alarm snapped him back to reality.  
  
At first he groaned, almost certain that he'd set it to not go off the night before. He rubbed his weary eyes and reached out to hit the off button when the softly flowing melody playing through the speakers made him completely freeze up. The bed was no longer warm and comforting. Ice ran through him as the music echoing across his surroundings threatened to open the floodgate of memories he had stored away.  
  
***  
  
"You can't actually be serious," John laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
"I've told you, I don't bother with useless trivia," Sherlock retorted.  
  
"My God, Sherlock, they're practically the most famous band in the world! There's no possible way you haven't heard _any_ of their songs." Then again, Sherlock was always full of impossibilities.  
  
Sherlock had merely shrugged and went back to his experiment. "As I said, useless trivia. Not important enough to remember if I have," he muttered. "Why should I pay attention to something I'm not interested in in the least? Has it any importance to me whatsoever?" He paused for a moment and groaned as he peered into his microscope. "Good Lord, this is going to be like the solar system all over again, isn't it?"  
  
John pursed his lips. He had felt bad for that, really, posting that bit of information on his blog for the world to see. "No," he said. "It's just. I don't know." He shifted himself on one foot. "I'd have thought you'd have cataloged them somewhere by now." He shook his head and mumbled to himself, amused as he walked back into the living room. "My favorites, and you don't even remember hearing one song."  
  
"Are they?" Sherlock questioned without looking up from his work. "Your favorite musicians?"  
  
"Mm. Present company excluded, I suppose."  
  
One late night, John had woken with a start. The thunder roaring outside had found its way into his dreams, supplying the sound to the terrible visions invading his head. It was just past three in the morning, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. Against his better judgement, he made his way downstairs to make himself a drink.  
  
Sherlock was still awake, and that was no surprise. His sleeping schedule was far from normal. He stood in front of his music stand scribbling notes across the paper, his dressing gown hanging haphazardly off of one shoulder. He made no comment to John on his sudden wakefulness, for he knew the answer already. Without a word, John walked past him and into the kitchen. He eventually settled himself comfortably on the sofa after fixing his drink. He leaned back against the cushions with his eyelids feeling ready to fall at any given moment  
  
Sherlock, seemingly satisfied with whatever notes he'd written down, tucked his violin under his chin. The slow rise and fall of the bow became hypnotizing as a soothing sea of music drifted through the room. It had taken a moment, but John recognized the melody, though Sherlock was playing it much softer, almost as if it were a lullaby. A warm smile spread over John's face. When he caught Sherlock's eye, the man's lips tugged upwards, evidently pleased with John's reaction. They never spoke a word about it as John soon drifted off into a sound sleep once more, the comforting sound of Sherlock's violin wrapping itself around his dreams.  
  
***  
  
The air felt like it had been forcibly vacuumed from his lungs as he lurched forward on the bed, a dry sob managing to escape his throat.  
  
Whether Sherlock had feigned to be less knowledgeable to annoy him, he didn't know. It didn't matter anymore anyhow. He hit the off button with a bit too much force and the alarm clattered to the floor of his bedroom. It was almost odd how the littlest things could have such a big impact memory wise, and the little things never seemed to come to an end.  
  
 _Is that what you wanted, Sherlock,_ he thought, _to be free in that moment, to fly?_  
  
Weeks later as he rummaged through his room, he managed to find his collection of records. They were strangely out of the order he had them in - by year - and listed alphabetically instead. It occurred to him in that moment that Sherlock may have gone through them all until he found a song he liked, just to get him the reaction John had given him that night. Because that's the kind of thing friends do, isn't it?   
  
He ended up boxing away that particular record, along with Sherlock's violin. He couldn't stand to listen to them, let alone bear to look at them.  
  
His favorite musician would never take another bow.

* * *

John avoided Angelo's like the plague.  
  
He had nothing against the man himself, he just couldn't handle sitting in that restaurant, being in the place where it all started, really. It seemed like so much of his life had began at that little restaurant, no matter how short the time span was. Sherlock had that kind of effect on him with the whirlwind he was.  
  
He tried finding new eateries, and the task was more difficult than he had imagined. The two of them were always on the go, and nearly every place held a memory of some sort, whether from a case or just random snapshots of their day to day lives. Sherlock had helped a lot of people as well, so many places offered them free meals just as Angelo did. Finding a nice place to have lunch without tying them to Sherlock was hard.  
  
He tried new dishes as well, ones he never would have been able to before, and John could practically hear him in his head, 'The chicken? Really? Don't be so pedestrian, this dish is much better.' It was all different back then. Before, Sherlock would say he was busy, focused intently on something. As soon as John's plate arrived, however, he would pluck bits of food from it into his own mouth. John questioned him about it once.  
  
" _Why don't you just get your own food?_ "  
  
" _Not hungry,_ " he claimed as he popped another chip into his mouth with a smirk.  
  
He was used to not being able to finish a full meal at times. Either they would have to run off somewhere in the middle of it, or Sherlock would steal part of it for himself. Whenever his food arrived at these new places, he ended up shoving his plate away about halfway through with a deep feeling of guilt knotting in his stomach for no apparent reason. Eating soon became more of a task than anything else.

* * *

"How are you?" Greg asked him as he took a sip from his coffee mug.  
  
John turned his own mug endlessly in his hands. How was he expected to answer? Was he supposed to say he was having trouble sleeping, because every time hit head hit the pillow, the memory of Sherlock hitting the pavement flashed before his eyes? Or that there were days he didn't want to get out of bed because he'd lost any purpose to? Was it impolite to mention how every damn day was a challenge with the weight of the guilt dragging him down, knowing he couldn't stop his best friend from killing himself? Should he have mentioned how his surroundings didn't feel real anymore, and that he was nearly convinced it was all a nightmare? Or that what he felt every minute of the day was a painful, numb emptiness?  
  
He wrapped his hands around the mug, reigning in the warmth of his drink. "I'm here," he answered after a moment, "and that's good enough for now."  
  
Greg swallowed and pushed his mug aside, laying his hands flat on the table. "Listen..."  
  
 _Don't. I've been doing so well today. Don't say his name. Please._  
  
Greg glanced down momentarily. "Have you talked to anyone?"  
  
John blinked at him. "About?"  
  
Clinking silverware and used appliances in the cafe became increasingly noisy as the two of them sat alone at a little table. Greg was clearly beginning to feel uncomfortable judging by his body language, John noted. He started picking up on things as he learned from Sherlock, and he cursed himself inwardly for observing. He couldn't be him, and he had no reason to do it, so why bother?  
  
"John," he tried again, "I know it's hard, but he -"  
  
John put his hand in front of him to stop the string of words before they went too far. This was one of the first times the two of them had spoken since it happened, and it still felt strained. John didn't blame Greg, he had nothing to do with the circumstances of Sherlock's death. What he couldn't stand, though, was to sit and talk about it. Talking about it meant it was real, and that was something he didn't particularly like thinking about. He wasn't ready for the shattered remnants of his life to be reduced to dust by reality.  
  
He wasn't ready to let Sherlock go, and he didn't know if he ever would be.  
  
"I miss him too, you know," Greg said quietly.  
  
"Please don't," John sighed, shaking his head. He knew Greg missed him. Hell, he'd known him so much longer than John had. Grief was never a competition. John knew he had to be hurting, but at the same time, John was feeling pain on an entirely different level. The spaces Sherlock filled were replaced by hollow walls and smoky memories that threatened to suffocate him at any moment.  
  
It was almost as if part of John's soul had jumped with Sherlock that day, only to be washed out of existence with the rain.  
  
He met Greg's sad eyes. "Sorry, sorry. It's just..." He licked his lips. "Can we talk about something else please?"  
  
When they started rambling on about sports, John felt more at ease. As soon as they parted, though, it was back to how he had been before - alone.

* * *

A silhouette of a tall man in a long coat was usually all it took to make John's heart skip a beat. The earth around him would come to a standstill until his brain finally kicked in. For the second time that day he had come to a pause on the pavement, staring with some strangled, distant hope in his chest. A closer look revealed everything; wrong hair, wrong height, far too alive to possibly be him. What was he thinking? _Get it together, Watson,_ he muttered to himself as he got into the taxi.  
  
Taking cabs had been his and Sherlock's main mode of transportation, and now he loathed getting in them. Absentmindedly, he would reminisce on not so old memories with every street they passed, every intersection holding the imprints of their footfalls. Unknowingly, he would smile as he stared into the distance, remembering how it had been before. Even the most ridiculous things brought this with them - seeing a large dog often made him think of Baskerville, and he could never think of Buckingham Palace without laughing. Sherlock had carved his own path across John Watson's heart and mind, managing to flow seamlessly into every corner of his life. It was only when the cab came to a stop that his stomach clenched, realizing there would be no more of those days.   
  
You can't make memories with a ghost.  
  
Sherlock's face, months later, was still plastered across cheap magazines at news stands everywhere. John absolutely loathed them, glaring at the sellers as he walked past them into the restaurant where his date was waiting. She was a lovely woman, her blonde hair was done in curls, and her bright blue eyes sparkled as she talked about her job. His mind began to check off things he'd noticed - left handed, from a well-off family, owns a dog - and he had no way of stopping it. Is this how Sherlock felt all the time?  
  
John did his best to enjoy himself, but phantom vibrations of his phone were distracting him. Sherlock would text him constantly while he was on a date, no matter how many times John warned him against it. His past girlfriends hated it, claiming that he was more attached to Sherlock than he was to them. Maybe they were right, looking back on it. Their lives were so deeply intertwined that anyone else gave up getting between them in any way. He had gotten irritated about then, but looking back, was it really such a bad thing?  
  
He checked his phone again for the fifth time that night. He was so used to having to get up and leave in the middle of dinner that he was almost lost when he realize he wasn't needed. Was he really needed anywhere anymore?  
  
The date ended miserably, not that John was expecting anything different. He hopped on the tube and practically trudged his way back to Baker Street. Upon entering the flat, he toed his shoes off and sat heavily in his armchair, staring at the empty seat across from him. He propped his head up on one arm. _Something has got to give_ , he thought as he closed his eyes.

* * *

Talking to his therapist didn't seem to be helping. Then again, he never said much of anything when he did go. He realized he was shutting himself away from everyone, but he had no energy to make an effort to change it.

 It was recommended that he talk to his friends, reconnect with those around him. He and Greg did small talk sometimes over coffee, and that was nice enough, he supposed. Mrs. Hudson would watch television with him every now and then, sitting quietly together. Molly's eyes were full of remorse the last time he'd bumped into her at the store that he hadn't gotten in touch with her again. He wasn't certain he could hold himself together with the way she looked at him.  
  
He had his friends from the army, old friends from his time at university to talk to, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't just talk about Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was never an item to be paraded around, nor was he a passing topic of interest in a news article. He was his best friend, and he was gone. The latter was still hard to accept, and John kept rejecting it, whether he meant to or not.  
  
He tried going to church once, and he had never felt more awkward than he did sitting alone in those pews. Sherlock had never been religious either, claiming there wasn't enough data to come to a final conclusion on the matter. He eventually left the building and never went back, wondering the entire time what the detective would have said about it, if anything at all.  
  
Nothing was helping to ease the pain, and John was starting to lose any hope he had clung onto. His own life was drifting away before his very eyes, and he saw no reason to reach out and grasp it. Would it really be the worst thing if he were to slip away?  
  
The days dragged on, and he began to ask himself that very question in a frighteningly increasing frequency.

* * *

He never meant to end up at St. Bart's.  
  
As usual, his day had started off terribly. In the middle of his lunch, he remembered he had an appointment to be at in fifteen minutes, and attempted a mad dash for a cab, but he had no such luck. He attempted a shortcut through the streets, momentarily forgetting what he was going to pass. And now, as he stood frozen in front of the building he promised to never return to, his stomach dropped and he felt sick. The mere sight of the place caused a lump in his throat, and he needed to get away, but it seemed he'd forgotten how to walk as he stumbled backwards into the street.  
  
A car horn blared in his ear, and before he knew what was happening, a force shoved him out of the way of the moving vehicle. He collided with the concrete beneath him with a painful crash, and for a moment, he was brought back to that night before where it all went wrong. That night they were together, hand in hand as they both hit the pavement after the brilliant idea of jumping in front of a bus came to Sherlock. In John's mind, he was running with Sherlock, forever running without a destination, but they were in on it together. Always together.  
  
Anger suddenly flashed through his vein without warning.  
  
The woman who pushed him out of the way stood over him, offering her hand to pull him up, but he glared at her instead of taking it. "Why?" he questioned, his jaw tense, his eyes ablaze.  
  
"Sorry?" she asked, obviously confused by his reaction.  
  
"Why did you do that?" he asked again. "Why couldn't you just let me be? If you'd have just left me, I could have -"  
  
He stopped himself mid-sentence. Could have what, exactly?  
  
 _I could have seen him again._  
  
The woman looked mildly worried, but left after a few moments, leaving John blinking at the harsh pavement. He pulled himself up and pressed his hands to his eyes. He should have been horrified at the thought, and the fact that he wasn't just made it worse. He had tried so many things, and nothing at all seemed to be working for him. _I've got to do something,_ he thought, _anything._ Knowing full well it was early in the afternoon, he still made his way to a little pub. Anything to numb his mind, even temporarily.  
  
So much time had been spent remembering, and tonight, he wanted to forget.  
   
John wasn't much for drinking, not with his family's history of alcoholism, but he was desperate. Sipping on his first pint, he wondered if there was something wrong with him. Other people almost always mentioned feeling a presence after death, as if their loved one was still hanging about, watching over them. John never felt that way, oddly enough. Sherlock had done so much watching over him in the time they were friends, surely he would do the same if an afterlife existed, wouldn't he?  
  
He had even silently begged and hoped for Sherlock to appear to him in his dreams, but it never worked out that way. He needed to hear his voice, to see him, to just be with him again. Shadowy figures ghosted their way through John's unconcious mind, only to evaporate with the wind when he got too close. Perhaps there was a sort of twisted irony in that.  
  
By his second pint, he wondered if there was an afterlife to begin with, and what Sherlock would be saying to him if he saw the spectacle he was making of himself. Most likely, he would have scolded him or rolled his eyes at his emotional state, telling him logic is above all else, along with instinct.  
  
Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he began toying with the idea that Sherlock wasn't gone. If he was gone, it would have felt like a limb had been torn off, but it didn't. There should have been an instinctual feeling somewhere, but it was different. The feeling gravitated more towards a ship being lost at sea, caught up in the waves as a lighthouse desperately searched for it through a hellacious storm. Maybe it was just different because it was Sherlock. He had hoped and prayed and wished for it to be true, for it all to be just some horrible scheme, but he knew that wasn't the case. He thought himself ridiculous and downed his drink quickly, dismissing the thought completely.  
  
More people filled the pub around his fourth pint. He probably should have slowed down, but there was no going back now. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a woman he had gone on a couple of dates with. It was funny looking back on it, how all of his more recent girlfriends were fed up with John's loyalty to Sherlock. Assumptions of their relationship came from all directions, and to be honest, John didn't even know what it was. They lived and worked together, somehow managing to not kill each other by doing so. Of course there were body parts and experiments and arguments, but John wouldn't have traded it for the world, and he was pretty sure Sherlock felt the same, but he never dared to ask.  
  
His thoughts consumed him midway through his fifth pint. Everyone claimed how much more tolerable Sherlock was since John had come into his life, and John only really began to live when Sherlock entered his. They sculpted one another and made each other better. If anything, they were two halves of a whole, John realized. There had to have been so many people in his life that used Sherlock, so many to label him as uncaring, as a freak, as anything they pleased, and John hated it, and he hated how Sherlock labeled himself. He _knew_ better.  
  
Sherlock was a lot of things. He was the perfect storm in every way. He was undeniably stubborn, overwhelming, brilliant, moody, clever, unpredictable, and a good friend. A sociopath, a freak, and a liar he was not. And the fact that the rest of the world would never know this firsthand, never have the pleasure of knowing him like John did, he wondered... Did that make him special?  
  
It hit him during his seventh pint. He was walking around without half of his life, half of himself torn away and frayed at the edges. Yet, he was expected to soldier on as he did, because that's what people do, isn't it? They grieve, and they move on. But John couldn't. He stared into his half empty glass, looking at his tortured face reflecting in the golden liquid. His best friend was gone. He was gone, and through all of the time people had made assumptions about what they were or weren't, John had never told him. It was left unspoken between them, a silent understanding... Or so he thought.  
  
Surely Sherlock knew, didn't he? John ruffled his hands through his hair. He never told him he was his best friend, not once. He never told him what he had done for him, how important he was, how happy he was to have met him. He was his best friend, and he never told him he cared about him, not even as he stood on the edge of the rooftop, and he would never get the chance to tell him ever again. He suddenly felt sick and his breathing became ragged as guilt washed over him in tidal waves, turning his already unstable world upside down.  
  
Where was he supposed to go from here?  
  
He didn't know how long it was, or how much he had to drink, but he eventually left the pub, the crisp night air dizzying him as he stumbled out the door. He hopped into a cab without a second thought, and before he knew it, he was face to face with Sherlock's headstone. Somehow without managing to fall on his face in the soft grass. He maneuvered himself with his back to the stone, letting the back of his head rest against the cool surface.  
  
"Ah, fuck," he breathed. He didn't know what the hell he was doing, or what he was even hoping to accomplish.  
  
He stared up at the night sky for a long time, watching the stars brightly shine on, the pale moonlight washing over his face.  
  
"Tell me I'm dreaming," he begged in a whisper, "Tell me this isn't real." He let out a shaky breath. "It's been months, Sherlock, it's been months and I'm still not used to it. You being gone." What good talking into the dark would do, he didn't know, but it couldn't hurt. He licked his lips. "I'm constantly waiting to hear your violin again," he laughed, "or for you to muck up my dates, for there to be experiments scattered around the kitchen, for you to burst in the door at any moment to tell me we need to go somewhere." He dragged a hand over his face as he talked into the night. "I'm always waiting for a text, and I know it won't ever come, it won't come because -"  
  
He was cut off by an unexpected sob as it tore through his throat. It would never come because he saw him toss his phone, he saw him jump, he felt his lifeless form beneath his fingertips as he lay on that wet pavement. He saw it with his own eyes, evidence he couldn't deny any longer.   
  
That was his breaking point.  
  
John had been strong for so long, and shut himself so tightly away, and he was tired, downright exhausted with walking the line between life and death. His body begged for a release, and the prickling tears streamed from his eyes as the floodgates opened. He pressed his palms firmly against his face and drew his knees up for comfort.  
  
"God, I miss you," he choked, his voice completely and utterly wrecked.  
  
He would have given anything in the world to spend one more day with Sherlock. Hell, even one more minute. If he were there, he would have charged into him, wrapping his thin body so tightly in a hug until he could no longer breathe, and he would hold on for much longer than necessary. He would tell him how amazing he was for the millionth time, even if he scoffed at the declaration. He would have told him he was his best friend, no matter if Sherlock knew it already or not. Above all, he would have told him that he loved him, because he did, and he always would. He would do it all in the middle of Piccadilly Circus if he had to without caring about what anyone else thought, their implications be damned. No one else mattered, not like Sherlock.   
  
There would never be enough time even if such a miracle could actually take place. The time he had already spent with Sherlock wasn't enough, and it never would be. He needed him then, and he needed him still. His body trembled as he cried, his cheeks hot and heavy from the tears and alcohol. Sobs wrecked through his body, and he just let go, letting the soldier mindset he'd held on to slip from his fingers. He was completely lost and alone in this world, and nothing could ever fix that. His stomach clenched with every heave, and his eyes began to eventually sting. He took his hands away from his face, fisting one hand in the grass, snapping the blades as they twisted. He blinked up at the darkened sky bleary eyed, his chest heaving, searching for the unknown.  
  
He couldn't manage to say the words now. Sherlock deserved better than that, he deserved to hear them while he was alive, he deserved to still _be_ alive. John had failed him on both accounts.  
  
"I don't know what to do, Sherlock," he cried, "you've got to tell me what to do," he sobbed out, not giving a damn if anyone heard him. There would always be a place in John Watson's life for Sherlock Holmes, whether the man was there or not. The realization violently ripped through his chest as memories flashed in the back of his mind. "I was always there when you needed me, and where are you?" He glared at the stars as though they had personally wronged him. His lips trembled, his face pulled into a distorted frown. "I need you here, but you've gone on and left me," he managed to get out. "I need you, can't you see that? I fucking need you!" His vision went blurry as he curled into himself, the overwhelming need for comfort taking over his body.  
  
For the first time in a long time, he just let himself cry. The tears seemed to never end as he choked them out, his body shivering and on the edge of hyperventilation. There would be no forgetting Sherlock, that was for certain. John would always believe in him, in who he was, and he would fight against the world for the rest of his life to prove how wrong they were. But for now, he was gone, and he wasn't coming back. Slowly, his body calmed itself, his muscles going slack after a night of emotions.  His head throbbed with pain, and he sniffed as he leaned it back against the cool stone once more.  
  
The sun had just began to rise. Breathtaking hues of deep purple mixed with blues and oranges and pinks rose into the star sprinkled sky. It was a difficult night, yes, but he got through it, and as he sat at Sherlock's place of rest, he felt more at peace than he ever had since before it all went wrong. He shook his head slightly. "I miss you, you idiot," he whispered as he stared off into the absolute beauty of the blooming sunrise in awe. "I miss you."

**Author's Note:**

> The song I'm hinting at in the beginning is Blackbird by The Beatles... Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
